My Valentine's Virus

Level 5: Princess_User24

In the hallway, I scour for the restroom. There, I'm hoping I can scrub the damn orange juice smell off my sweater and not hear another word about it. Back-up is also requested. A hard chill skirts up my spine, and my head whips around to meet a wall of a man. His dark masculine form has my heart skipping.

He saunters toward me. I squint to find a face beneath his hoodie, but the shade covers him well. That's got to be on purpose. I swallow.

The cold stain sticks against my right hip and becomes an afterthought while I try recalling him from somewhere.

The onyx brick interior acts as his personal backdrop for mischief. That's when I knew he was him.

My nostrils flare as long legs consume the distance protecting me. His sculpted face appears under mosaic lighting like some pornographic light show. As he passes, darkness leaves and reappears around him. I make out his translucent face, but the light doesn't touch his eyes. They're a pair of hooded masculine orbs that most people couldn't find in common crowds. His dark green eyes form a paradox, like a hedge maze at night. It's breathtaking and entirely fantasy.

My vision heats, finding tremendous focus in them—on me. He reminds me of a prowling panther in the shade. Even if he's already been spotted, he doesn't care. He's happening.

The smell of bourbon is penetrating even in this distance. I fight to keep my expression trained as he raises his hands to shape a heart.

Time freezes, but he comes closer.

My muscles clench, and I remember the jackass on his black Ducati Panigale motorbike that Saturday. The white skull Elysium print on his helmet surfaces behind my eyes, and my shoulders sag.

Violence twists in my spleen, ragging on myself in drowning waves. Even if the rapid traffic light change and his logo were a minor suspicion, I should have investigated the driver as soon as I got home! My teeth grate, hoping he doesn't notice.

How screwed am I?

"Zone is no joke." The rumbles from the audience clash back into my head.

I mean—this was what I wanted, right? What I planned?

I massage the growing tension in my neck as if winding my gears. My nerves need to fucking chill. I hesitate at the sweat accumulating in my palm.

Intrigue meets the hard scowl of my walking doom, and his fingers brush against the brick wall like an enchantment. My body numbs, I struggle to swallow, and my eyes can't shift from him.

The closer he gets, the more stifling his size is, even in the echoing expanse of the gothic ceiling.

Air-conditioned space heats, warmed by his disguised rage. A vein pulsates near his forehead and neckline as if he's on the verge of bursting.

Oh, he's pissed—no. That word doesn't even scratch the surface of his murderous expression.

I inhale more of him, and my knees weaken. I've finally got him! Mr. Number One. An inhibited grin builds behind my features.

This is... reviving. It's overwhelming in bounds.

Is he really Mr. Number One? My entire body betrays the chill exterior I've cultivated. But in my defense, Xalton gives me no time to adjust to his God-like presence.

Everything he had on stage follows him here. I'm still stuck on how he's this huge in person.

Glimpsing away, I recall his Wiki page. Six ft. Six in. Xalton's a full foot taller than me with his gravity too. It siphons oxygen from the space, replacing it with his own.